


Prodigy

by avantegarda



Series: It's the New World, Darling-A 19th-20th Century AU [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Gen, at least feanor is a good father occasionally, victorian boarding schools were terrible we know this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 19:45:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18105206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avantegarda/pseuds/avantegarda
Summary: Maglor's fairly certain Mozart didn't have to deal with this nonsense.





	Prodigy

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently I can't stop writing Victorian House of Finwë. Thanks, Obama.  
> If you liked it, let me know, and if you didn't, just pat me on the head and change the subject to the weather like usual.

_ London, 1878 _

 

At the age of twelve I, like every other boy in my family since time immemorial, was shipped off to school at Saint Francis Academy in Scotland. This, as it turns out, was a terrible idea.

In my parents’ defense, they had no idea things would turn out as badly as they did. St. Francis’ is a very respectable school, in spite of how many Members of Parliament they’ve turned out, and my grandfather Finwë, my father, and both my uncles had all attended and thrived there. Not to mention that my older brother Maedhros had been there for three years already and was having a grand time. It was naturally assumed that I, like all the rest of my family, would do brilliantly in all subjects and graduate with honors before attending Oxford or, in a pinch, Cambridge.

What everyone failed to realize, unfortunately, is that while St Francis’ might be a very good school in general, it may not be a particularly good school for  _ everyone _ . Especially when one is a small, skinny, sensitive boy without the slightest aptitude for arithmetic or Latin and who prefers playing the piano to playing rugby, and who has a very low tolerance for cold showers and early-morning runs. For this sort of boy it is, in fact, hell.

To say I did not get along with my classmates is a colossal understatement. I was locked in cupboards, had ink spilled on my bedsheets, and on more than one occasion was shoved into mud and pummeled. The teachers, who didn’t particularly like me, turned a blind eye; Maedhros did his best to protect me, though there was only so much he could do. 

Unsurprisingly, halfway through my second year there, I became ill. Quite frighteningly so, in fact. I was confined to my dormitory, unable to keep any food down, unable to sleep without nightmares or to get out of bed. After a few weeks of this (during which, I found out later, I very nearly died), the headmaster decided enough was enough and sent me home in disgrace. I say “disgrace” as Dad was furious with me for my evident weakness, and even Mum and Granddad were fairly disappointed. Nonetheless, for yours truly it was nothing short of a miracle, and I began to recover nearly as soon as I returned home. I’ll leave it up to the scientific men to puzzle that one out.

 

Approximately four weeks after my triumphant return to the family seat, I was awoken at the crack of noon by my father entering my room without knocking (in the weeks since coming back home, sleeping had been one thing I’d excelled at). Dad flung open my door, and said briskly, “Get up, Maglor. We need to speak.”

I managed to drag myself up into a sitting position, rubbed my eyes, and stared right back at him. “I think I know what this is about. And I am  _ not  _ going back to that school, Dad. Not even if you try to drag me back in irons.”

To my very great surprise, Dad’s gaze softened. “No, I daresay you aren’t. But now that you’re on the mend, you must do something. I’m not willing to let you abandon education altogether.”

He was right, of course. As much as I wanted to stay in bed for the rest of my life, it was not exactly a realistic course of action. Though I was at a loss as to what to do next. I was, quite simply, adrift.

Well, there was one thing I wanted to do...something I’d been dreaming of since I was a little boy. But I didn’t dare to even  _ think _ of that, as I knew for certain that it was quite impossible.

“As it happens,” Dad continued, “I have had, I believe, quite an excellent idea for your next step. You’ve heard, I believe, of the Royal Austrian Academy of Music, in Vienna?”

I sat bolt upright, staring at him in shock. “H...how did you  _ know _ ?”

Dad chuckled. “If you want to keep your ambitions a secret, my boy, you oughtn’t to leave your magazines and pamphlets all over the house. One needn’t be a detective to puzzle it out.”

“I’ve wanted to go there for years,” I said. “Ever since I was eight, and we went to see that violin concert at the Legrand Theatre...do you remember? The program said the lead violinist had gone to the Royal Austrian Academy and I knew...I  _ knew  _ I had to go there. I mean...I hoped to.” I swallowed hard. “Just wished, really.”

“If you felt you had to, you felt you had to. Don’t weaken your words if you don’t want to weaken yourself.” It was one of Dad’s favorite sayings, and one that generally annoyed me, though that day it was surprisingly reassuring. “Anyway, by an extraordinary stroke of luck or Divine Providence, I have discovered that the director of the Royal Academy, Herr Meissner, is in London this very week. And by showing up at the restaurant where he was dining last evening and absolutely refusing to take no for an answer, I’ve arranged for you to meet him. Tomorrow.”

“ _ Tomorrow _ ?”

“Indeed, and he’ll most likely ask you to play something for him, so you should probably prepare something. Violin, I think, much easier to transport. And when I say tomorrow, I mean nine o’clock in the morning, so you should get started practicing now.”

 

By the next morning, I felt I was as prepared as I’d ever be. I had spent nearly five hours the previous day practicing  _ Ave Maria  _ on my violin, until all five of my younger brothers had offered to pelt me with dinner rolls until I stopped (Frankly, I was becoming worried about the twins. Four years old and they’d already turned into smaller Celegorms, complete with arm punches and snide remarks). Several dinner rolls later, I felt I’d reached a stopping point.

I barely even allowed myself to  _ think  _ of what would happen if I were successful. It would be far too painful to get my hopes up again. Best-case scenario, I only played half of the notes wrong and Dad only mildly disowned me. Perhaps then I could run away to Paris and drown my sorrows in absinthe, as I’d heard most artistic good-for-nothings did.

At precisely nine o’clock the next morning, Dad and I were escorted into the sitting room of Herr Meissner’s suite at the Savoy, where the gentleman in question sat in wait for us. He was tall and wiry, with a shock of pure white hair, and overall looked exactly like one would expect the director of a music school to look.

“Ah, Herr Gates,” said Herr Meissner coolly. “This is the son you spoke so highly of?”

Dad presumably said yes, though I wasn’t sure, as I was somewhat in shock that he spoke of me at all, let alone highly. 

“He is very young,” Herr Meissner remarked. “How old are you,  _ mein Junge _ ?”

“Er...fourteen,” I managed.

“Very young,” he said again, shaking his head. “I am not sure about this, Herr Gates.”

“Young or not, I’ll wager he’s got more raw talent in his little finger than half your students have in their whole bodies,” Dad replied. “Give him a chance and if you’re not satisfied, we’ll be on our way. Otherwise, we’ll see you in Vienna come August.”

Herr Meissner looked shocked, and for one horrible second I was sure he was going to have us thrown out. But after a moment, he turned to me and nodded.

I gave him the nod right back, all nerves gone, and picked up my violin.

And I just... _ played _ .

Now, by my present-day standards (which are, if I may say so, quite disgustingly high), I doubt that my playing or singing that morning was anything to write home about. However, it must have had some redeeming qualities, as when I finished Herr Meissner looked—dare I say it— impressed.

“Herr Gates,” he said, turning to my father. “I apologize. You were correct. He is...quite extraordinary.”

Dad nodded, with a faint smile of satisfaction. “I am very glad you agree. I will leave you our address; please send us the necessary paperwork as soon as possible.”

“With pleasure.” Herr Meissner stood and turned to me, shaking my hand warmly. “My boy, I very much look forward to having you study with us in Vienna.  _ Auf Wiedersehen. _ ”

 

Back downstairs, in the hotel lobby, I turned to Dad.

“Father,” I said. “Excuse me if I’m wrong, but I believe I was just accepted into the Royal Austrian Academy of Music.”

He looked surprised. “Why, of course you were. Was there any doubt about that?”

“Plenty. But I...I can’t believe you did that for me. You were so disappointed when they sent me home from St. Francis, and...and I thought …”

“You thought I wouldn’t tolerate any Gates boy deviating from family protocol?” Dad shook his head. “Maglor, listen to me. You are correct, I was disappointed that you were not able to remain at St. Francis. You are a very bright boy and I naturally expected you to be a success. But you are  _ my son _ , and you  _ will  _ succeed. It’s in our blood. If not at St. Francis, then in Vienna. If not in Vienna, then on the bloody moon. And I will do whatever it takes to get you there.”

I can neither confirm nor deny whether I started to cry at this point.

**Author's Note:**

> I firmly believe Feanor was an excellent (if occasionally overinvolved) dad and husband before all the later drama got in the way.


End file.
